Broken Toy Soldiers
by anotherbrother
Summary: The war was over. The Last Battle long since fought. Life still goes on, not matter how much you wish it didn't


**This is a story, written with the HP universe in mind, but is not strictly about it. It can be read in it's own as well.  
If you do consider it as a Harry Potter fic, then the following applies:  
1) The Kid is James Sirius Potter  
2) I don't own the Harry Potter universe.**

* * *

He sipped his whiskey. The last one he could afford this month. It tasted horrible, but he chocked it down, almost sighing as the warm numbness spread. The next sip he didn't taste, but felt the numbness spread. He almost moaned. After all the pain, just the lack of it felt like the sweetest caress and most passionate touch together. Like her…

He scowled and had another sip. Just the thought of her was enough to bring the pain back. The pain, the voices, the sights, smells… all as clear as that night. The night it all went to hell.

 _"…come to die."_

 _"We'll never surrender!"_

 _"Kill them! Kill them all!"_

"HEY!"

He jolted, looking at the disturbance. It was a kid. From the school. What the hell was he doing here? Wait… this was _his_ kid! Looked just like him, too! Out of reflex, he shifted, readying for a fight, when the kid spoke again.

"You okay? You looked pretty out of it."

He blinked, then snorted. Of course, the kid didn't have a clue. Probably came here to see the place where _he_ did some idiotic stunt or some such thing. Not here to find and continue a fight long over. Or gloat over the losses so many suffered. What he suffered. Not that the kid would know. He doubted the kid knew who he was. Of course, he doubted that _he_ would recognize him either.

"I'm alive… unfortunately."

His voice is hoarse, but if he strains he can make out the faintest strains of what used to be an elegant, cultured accent. The kid doesn't, only seeing a drunk, doddering fool.

"Okay then… I was just trying to be friendly."

He snorts again, then has another sip. Friendly… sure. Get real friendly with the dirt to start with. Preferably the dirt outside the bar. And the town. And the country. If only…

"Were you… you know? In the war?"

He grip tightens on his glass. The kid's about as tactful as _he_ was. Brilliant. Just bloody brilliant. Last drink he can afford, and he has to spend it with this son of a…

"My dad was…"

"We know," he growls out, "Everyone fucking knows about your dad and the fucking war."

He stares at the glass. Damn this kid. He can see her again. Pale. Terrified. Then the blood. He closes his eyes and speaks softly.

"Some of us better than others know what he cost us."

The kid frowns. Great. And now he'll ask…

"What do you mean? It's been all put in the books and papers. You know, my Aunt…"

"If you're about to quote the woman I think you are, I'll advise you not do so in front of me."

He turns to glare at the kid, who looks suitably affronted. Probably thinks his family is all saints and angels. Then he looks away. How can he blame him? He thought the same way at that age. How young and foolish they were, marching off to boldly fight for the grand cause. Not even their cause, really. Their parents' and grandparents' cause that they paid for. With everything.

"What do you mean?"

He blinks and turns, raising an eyebrow.

"What do you know that won't be reported?"

He almost laughs. Oh the irony. He wants to forget. The kid wants to find out.

"How old are you, child?"

"Sixteen"

The kid says proudly. Sixteen. Were we that young once? Hard to remember. But on that night there were thirteen year olds running and fighting and dying.

"I'm old enough! I've read all the reports and archives about what happened!"

Well, if he thinks he's ready…

"Do any of them tell you what death looks like?"

The kid blinks.

"What!?"

"What death looks like? Or the smell of burnt and rotting corpses? The scream of a mother watching her child die? The sour taste of your own fear? Or how about the sensation of utter terror as you look around, hoping and praying the mashed guts you're standing in is not your brother's? Do they?"

The kid is silent. Finally. Only now the whiskey is over. Damn it. Damn it all.

"But it's over now… isn't it? We won and all the bad men are in jail."

He feels his jaw go slack. There is no possible way this kid is THAT naïve.

"I watched the man who murdered my mother walk down the street a few days ago. People happily came out to congratulate him. "

"But… but the trials…"

"I watched the men who raped and murdered my sister greet him as an old friend."

The kid is speechless again. Enjoy it while it lasts. Or maybe it's time to leave.

"Didn't you report it? You could tell…"

Too late.

"Tell who? The highest official in law enforcement was happily congratulating them for their sins"

The kid's still trying to wrap his head around it. By all the powers that be, is he really that stupid? Should he? May as well. Not like he has anything else to do in his life. Not anymore.

"Your father was particularly pleased with how he killed of my father."

Still doesn't get it. Are they really that…

"Hey!"

Finally.

"You're… you're one of _them_!"

"Well done. A most brilliant deduction. You truly share your father's intelligence."

"HEY!"

Well, at least he can understand an insult. That makes him smarter than a tree. How marvelous.

"I can't believe they let you walk free…"

He can't help it. He laughs. There's no mirth. That died with his sister. Nor is there the cold dispassion he was taught to show. That died with the woman who taught it to him. All he has left is his anger and self-loathing.

"You think they care? No army truly cares for its soldiers. Even most of the leaders get off, as long as some of the big shots are publicly sentenced and shamed, nobody gives a damn about the riffraff."

"All of _your_ kind were sent to…"

Now he's angry. Stupidity makes him very angry.

"Weren't you listening, you dimwitted buffoon? Your side… or rather, your father's side won because they could publicly and loudly toss a few of the biggest figures into whichever hellhole caught their fancy. The rest of us were swept under the rug. Those with the money to repent and reform publicly did it, while the rest of us are painted into the woodwork. Hell, in about an hour the lot who fought on your parents' side will be here."

"Then I'll tell them who you are and…"

Oh, for the sake of all that is living!

"They know. We share a drink on weekends. All of us unlucky survivors."

"WHAT!? I can't believe they…"

"don't care. None of us do anymore. When you walk through hell and come out the other side, no one you'll make your peace with the men who did the same. Who cares if they fought on your father's side or not"

Silence. By some miracle, it looks like he's actually thinking.

"You keep saying my dad's side. It's my side too!"

"Don't ever make that mistake," he snaps harshly, "Your parent's wars are not yours to fight."

The silence is now calm. Almost companionable. Which makes it painful, and it needs to be broken.

"Go start your own war if you must, but don't just run parading some other fool's banner."

He nods to the bartender then stands. The kid stands with him and walks with him to the door. They both stop outside and stare ahead. A woman is cleaning her house. She brings out several boxes of toys, games, clothes and much else, but both man and boy look at only one box.

A set of toy soldiers, battered and broken, some missing legs, others arms. One is even whole, with no visible damage. It's likely her son's old set that's finally being cleared out. The two of them watch as the broken toy soldiers, of varying colours, are unceremoniously dumped together in the trash, and then left to be dealt with by someone else.

They both stare for a long time, then go their separate ways. A week later, the boy sees a small article in the newspaper about a man found dead in an alley. He notes the body looks familiar, then puts the paper down and forgets all about it.


End file.
